


In spite of a warnin' voice

by TotemundTabu



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 23:03:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TotemundTabu/pseuds/TotemundTabu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred is a young boy who decided to introduce to his family his lover, Kiku. But things are not always easy to accept, even in a modern family. And both his daddies can't help but remember their lovestory. A bittersweet AU, setting in past and present - FrUk, Ameripan, I also tried to be funny... somehow, sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In spite of a warnin' voice

**Author's Note:**

> Before starting: This fanfic was very close to be called "I should really go to sleep, people", because I said this sentence like 34 times while writing it and trying to stop- I wrote it in a relatively short time, taking pauses while writing angst stuff. AU, dedicated to a dear friend, I hope you'll be allright, babu. AU, FrUk, Ameripan, bittersweet, I also tried to be funny... somehow, sometimes. There are 3 narrative sections: Boston 2012, in Bonnefoy-Kirkland house, Boston 2010, in the University campus, and then Paris 1987. Boston 2010 sections have Kiku as narrator and narrative time is present, while the other parts are in a 3rd person narrator , simple past.

**In spite of a warnin' voice**

. **  
**

_Tell me, why should it be_

_you have the power to hypnotize me?_

_Let me live 'neath your spell._

_Do, do that voodoo that you do so well..._

\- Frank Sinatra, You do something to me

.

Boston, 2012

That morning, september twenty second, Sunday, twenty five after nine, in the last breathe of warm breeze of the year, Alfred spoke his mind about a topic nobody, ever, thought he could would have taken seriously in his life.

"I'm gonna marry."

Arthur choked an heart attack,feeling his tea trying to strangle him.

"You _what_? - he turned to his husband - Francis, say som..."

Useless.

François Bonnefoy, 'Francis' for the closest ones, had in the eyes a shining twinkle Arthur learnt through the years to be diffident of.

Francis was a little... obsessed with Love. Arthur always ascribed it to his being French, because, as every English man worthy of the name, there are just a few things he thought there was not to blame on France: how the Harry Potter movies were not good enough and when the tea was over; but Francis was, actually, an hopeless case.

"It's _merveilleux_ , Alfred!"  
Oh gosh. When he started to speak in French, it was really beyond madness hoping in any help.

He turned slowly to their 'why? why did we choose you? a dog would have been a better idea' son.

"Are you even serious?"

"Well, not now. - he clarified - But, you know, emh... maybe, in months."

Arthurt tried to be as diplomatic and calm as possible.

"...and who is the lucky girl?"

Alfred blinked.

Twice.

Also Matthew blinked and so did Francis, before bursting in a noisy laugh.

"Ah, don't worry, Al! It was your daddy's best attempt of being funny! You know, English sense of humour."

Matthew gave a light, trembling laugh.

"Oh, sure."

Alfred frowned, "Dad, you suck at being funny..."

A dog would have been such a better idea. Way better.

"If it's not too much to ask, darling, may you wait a moment in the living room, while I have a little talk with daddy?", asked Francis, quietly.

When they both left, and the door was closed, the French put the hands on his hips and breathed heavily.

"Oh _mon dieu_ , this was so close..."

" _This_ what?"

"Your heart attack. - he whispered - I always hoped this topic would have come out as late as possible."

Arthur seemed worried, "...dear god, Fran, what are you talking about?"

"Alfred prefers... - he searched in his mind a good metaphor but all his poets suddenly left him alone - ...not to mix different types of liquid."

"Eh?"

Francis bit his lips and started to gesture a little, as everytime he was nervous and was trying to be delicate.

"You know, mh, there is people who likes meat, people who likes fish. - he seemed to remember something- And the ones who like both."

"...and vegetarians. What's the point?"

"I like both, for example, mh, you are really a meat-lover."

"Well, I like fish and chips."

"...that's not fish, _pour l'amour de dieu_. - he shook his head - Anyway. Al loves meat too. A lot. - he trod the word, emphasizing it - A lot. Pratically only meat, oh, well... - then he seemed to became distracted - Well, there was a time in high-school I think he was close to a fish but, you know, maybe it was a sensation of mine. He used to feel also a little bad about all this meat and fish thing, I tried to explain there's nothing bad about it, I mean: fish, meat, they are all good, the important is..."

Arthur's eyes became slimmer and sharper with suspect.

Francis didn't realize on time we has been carried away and his husband glare at him.

"Fran."

"...yes?"

"Are you talking about homosexuality, by any case?"

"...I think it can be resumed this way.", the french man swallowed a little lump of tension in his throat.

"I see. - Artur lowered his eyes, seemed suddenly weak and strenghtless, and whispered - Well, I suppose I could have imagined it."

Francis tried to provoke him, "Oh, c'mon, it does not have anything to do with us being two men: you had two heterosexual parents and you sew! You. Sew."

Useless.

Arthur seemed genuinely sad.

"...and. - Francis continued - Even if it has something to do with us, it's not a fault at all. You know this, don't you?"

"What about Matthew?"  
"Do you need a proof?"

"What about Matthew?", he hissed.

Francis gave a sigh, "He likes girls, now he's dating with an Irina or something like that. She's ukraine, I guess. Nice chassis."

Arthur glared, "Maniac."

"As long as I don't touch... - he stood up and went to the little cooker - Do you want another tea?"

"Yes, thank you."

Francis kept staring on Arthur out of the corner of his eye, smiling softly and softly humming a song.

The eglish smiled too, badly faking an irked pitch, "Frank Sinatra again."

"You know he makes me think of you."

"The thing that makes me think of you is Pepé Le Pew."

"You are really an imbecile. - he winked - A delicious one, though."

Francis poured the hot tea in Arthur's faithful mug.

It was one of the first thing, probably the first, that Alfred bought him, and meaning it, with his little saved money and not by saying "Papa, can we buy this for Daddy?". It was a mug with a flag: Alfred was sure as hell it was the Union Jack, but iit turned out to be the australian flag. Nobody had the heart to tell to that six years old with giant sparkling blue eyes the truth, so, since fourteen years the ultra-proud Londoner Arthur Kirkland drinks his morning earl gray in a mug with the symbol of an ungrateful colony.

Arthur gave a sigh. It would have been useless asking why Francis knew.

Francis always knew everything.

First, he has a sort of sixth sense for any sentimental matter, second, he never scolded their kids, not really, so they always thought it was easier to talk with him. Francis was good at keeping secrets and had a talent as listener.

Arthur knew perfectly and thought that the role of the serious parent fitted him better. But, sometimes, it burnt.

It would have been stupid to deny: he has a soft spot on Alfred, he was his favourite. Oh yes, parents shouldn't have one, right? But they are human too, and it was easy to see how Arthur, even when quarreling madly, was deeply unable to stay actually angry towards Alfred.

And, in the end, Francis was a perfect counterweight, because the french was really fond on literature, art and nature, and Matthew - or Mathieu - was really like him. Yes, Arthur was a bibliophile too, but most the kind that lends you a book and never really talk about it out loud.

Francis was... passionate.

He could have talked for hours about absolutely nothing. And everybody would have fall in love with that nothing, raptured.

Francis loved nearly everything.

He loved also London, but he never admitted it.

And it took years before he actually decided that speaking more in English and less in French wouldn't be deadly for him. Eventually, moving to Toronto helped them a little, but it was when they settled in Boston that he actually gave up.

Anyway, the day Matthew asked him to teach him a little French, Arthur could swear it, Francis was the happiest man on earth.

Actually, it took a while for Arthur to accept how in love he was with Francis. He was not open about feelings ad emotions, and they had years of love fights and screams and... punches, okay, mostly punches. And angry sex. Also, he was a little scared - hard to admit, even at himself - because, well, the other was known for giving love a bad name, just to use and euphemism, he had several lovers, men or women never mattered.

Arthur still wasn't sure if he ever betrayed him, after their wedding.

After the adoptions we was damn sure nothing happened.

"Arthur?"

"Mh?"  
"It's getting cold...", he pointed at the tea.

Arthur nodded, drinking slowly.

He always thought at Francis as the wrong choice.

But, somehow, he managed to understand that he didn't really had a choice: that's what being in love is. And, eventually, he turned out to be the best wrong choice in his life.

"...so everybody already knew.", he gave a sigh, when his thoughts returned to focus on Alfred.

"Oh, well, not exactly everybody."

A glare.

"Your dad doesn't."

"My dad doesn't even remember that I exist."

"...well, it would have made me feel bad making you think you was the only one."

"Thank you, Mister pain the ass."

"It wasn't 'pain' the last time what you screamed."

"Francis."  
" _Oui_?"

"Shut up."

The french laughed a little, after years he was used to it. He drank a sip of milk, tasting overly sweet.

"Anyway, a wedding is quite out of the question."

"Even if I agree with you, I am afraid he's old enough to decide on his own. - Francis sighed - But, you know, before everything, we should ensure him that we do want to know his boyfriend."

There, Arthur blinked, surprised.

"Don't you know him?"

"No. - he shrugged his head and shoulders - The only thing I know is that it's since he's at University that they are together."

Arthur frowned.

"How do you?"

"He asked me help for the first date."

Francis let the open the water of the washbasin. Arthur seemed annoyed.

"That is to say-"

"Alfred had some dates during high school but very few, because... well, he was a little ashamed."

"How can somebody be ashamed of being gay with two gay parents?"

"I think that, simply, he never saw himself that way. You know, he has that Superman attitude. - he washed the dishes and the cups - Anyway. - continued, with the hands under the hot water and the bubbles of soap - As I was saying, but he never was really nervous, you know, that kind of feeling when you continue asking yourself if you are doing something idiot."

"And only God knows how much it should have been better if from time to time he actually wondered."

"But that time, he actually said: I am anxious because I am happy."

"...it's so cheesy it's ridicolous."

"Did you ever heard Alfred aditting he's afraid of something?"

Arthur shut up, lowering his green eyes to the table. Where Alfred sat before there were still some crumbs and the little round print where the bowl of cereals was.

Alfred, who for his birthday asked for a videogame.

Alfred, who still kept buying Captain America stuff... the last time, when they were to the mall he bought a T-shirt. Jesus Christ.

Alfred, who never learnt how to cook an egg without risking to burn the whole house.

Alfred? Marry?

Not in the next century.

"He's still a kid."

Francis stared at the dark water, with a bitter dissapointed look.

"I guess, we all would like to think some things never change."

"What's this supposed to mean?"

Somebody knocked at the kitchen door. Alfred and Matthew popped up, with two curious and a little worried glazes.

"Oh, c'mon, c'mon... Al, daddy an me had a little talk. - he wiped his hands - You are really too young to marry, but we would be extremely happy to know the boy who made you rush this way."

Alfred seemed at first a bit angry, then he cracked a little smile.

"Really?"

The question was mainly for Arthur, but Francis replied for him, "Obviously."

"And if I show you I am perfectly able to be adult, then I can marry him?"

"You are not talking about buying a bike, Jesus Christ!"

"...Arthur, calm down. - Francis frowned - Al, you are twenty years old, and, to be true, I'm afraid even younger mentally."

Matthew nodded, "I said it too, but he ignored me. - then added, bitterly - As always."

"But he's not."

"I am sure he's really mature, but some..."  
Alfred interrupted the parent again, "I mean he's not twenty years old."

Arthur and Francis exchanged a perplex look and then asked, almost at the same time.

"...twentyone?"

Matthew glared at his brother, "Is it strictly necessary for me to assist at the coming armaggedon? Because I would really find wonderful to survive."

"Love doesn't know age, isn't it, papa?"

Arthur gave a lethal glare at his husband.

"You and your speeches about ridicolous romantic humbugs."

"Oh, sorry, Scrooge!"

"How dare you..."

"They forgot about you, Al.", Matthew suggested.

"Maybe I should take this as a chance to getting away with it."

"It shouldn't even cross your mind. - Arthur reprised - How old is he?"

Francis groaned, "Don't get so mad, probably, he's barely a twentyfive years old assistant."

"...he's thirty-eight."

Francis swallowed, "Nevermind."

"You can't share your life with someone as old ad your parents."  
"Dear, you are not thirty-eight since a while."

"Shut that frog mouth up!"

Alfred spoke again, recklessy, "I love him. I really do."

"Oh, a young man talking about love, how can you resist?"  
"On whose side are you?", asked Arthur, panicking.

Francis handed on, "It's not a matter of sides, _petit chou_ , it's just..."

"Don't call me cabbage."

"But, I mean, we don't know nothing about this man... how can we ban him?"

"My Al won't date a forty-year-old maniac."

The french hissed, "Well, our Al will date who the hell he wants."

Matthew rolled his eyes to the ceiling, giving a deep, heavy sigh, then looked at his brother.

"You made a mess."

"They made the mess! - Alfred defended himself - You know they quarrel about everything."

"And since when adding fuel to the fire is a good idea?"

"Since when I love that fuel."

Arthur stopped. The bitter taste in his mouth increased, as I didn't know how to respond to that.

"Anyway... - Francis gave a quickly sorry look to husband, who avoided eye contact with an embarassed sigh - Tomorrow, maybe, he may come to eat with us."

Arthur turned, "I will meet him, but let's be clear I won't approve if he's less than flawless."

"I don't need your approval!", Alfred shouted.

"...Al, it was daddy's way to be kind."

"It was a shitty way.", he protested again.

"You can't ask the elms trees to bear pears."

Everybody looked at Matthew, dazed.

"... it's a song lyrics."

* * *

Boston, 2012, the morning after

"So."

Francis gave another look at the list, wrinkling the nose. Arthur stand, sighing, resting on his elbows on the shopping trolley.

"Is it still something missing? We have fod for the whole army, here."

"Tut tut. - he let his index dancing - For once that I can organize a big, elegant dinner, I will. Mh, do you think that as dessert is better a _crème brûlée_ or a _mousse au triple chocolat_?"

Arthur forwned, "Why don't you make your _clafoutis_? It's good."

"It's a special dinner, it calls for an elegant dessert to eat with a little, silver spoon."

"But the _clafoutis_ is good."

"I'll do it for you, tomorrow.", he promised with a soft smile.  
"...a _crème brûlée_ would be fine, I guess."

"Lavander or vanilla?"

"You and your lavander mania: it's for the wardrobe, not for the mouth!"

"Mh?", Francis looked to the ceiling.

"What's up?"

"What's this song?"

Arthur focused on the sound, trying to recognize it.

"...a cartoon, I think- it comes from the loudspeaker of the toys area."

"Oh yes! - Francis bang his fist on the other hand - The little mermaid! Oh, Matthew loved that film! Do you remember?"

"Barely. - admitted - How can you have a good memory for these kind of things?"

Francis smiled, "I just notice them."

Arthur took a bottle of red wine, after years he learned to distinguish the one Francis liked, well, at least the sticky label on it.

"I can't even find the seven differences on the enigmistic magazine pictures."

Francis gave a deep, light, laugh.  
"That's true! You are a little slow at this."

"I am the worst observer on earth. - said in a breath - Probably that's why you are the one they come to... always."

"I don't think it's this the cause."

"Then why?"

The soprano voice of the singer raised until it almost seemed made of light and crystal.

"Because they don't feel judged, I suppose."

"I... I don't judge."

Francis smiled, "You do. And I love it."

"Really?"

"You do because you need it... - he moves his hands like a conductor - You want things to have an order, you are an irrational man who loves rational things. They make you feel... at your ease. Besides also judges are needed sometimes."

Arthur groaned, "You are enough irrational for the both of us. Being the both of us like you would be problematic."

Francis smiled again.

"I would like to be like that... - the music seemed to became lower, darker - At least, a little."

Then the voice raised again.

Arthur bit his lips.

"Maybe we should... - he shivered, shrugged his shoulders, nervous, changed topic - Emh, buy some flowers? Like for the the table, which ones are better? Roses?"

Francis smiled, sadly.

"...roses are always perfect, I guess."

"Red or white?"

"Coral. - Francis took a box of chocolate - Ehy, these are on sale."

Arthur leant an hand and Francis gave the box to him.

"They are simply your favourite. - said Arthur, with a strangerly soft voice - It's not like you wait the discount to buy them. - he paused, then blinked - Take two."

Francis took the second box and looked at Arthur, who seemed thoughtful.

" _Chéri_?"

"...which was Al's?"

"Al's what?"  
"Favourite cartoon movie."

"Hercules."

"I see."

His voice was raucuous, the bitter aftertaste of feeling bad.

* * *

Paris, 1987

" _Excusez-moi, savez-vous où je peux trouver 'Orphée' de Moreau_?"

A voice.

So limpid, like spring water.

" _Bien sûr_.", he replied, turning

Two green eyes, the same colour of sweet newborn grass shining under the sun.

" _Oh, merci beaucoup_..."

And the shy, almost coarse attitude, that veils a pure heart.

That was the first impression that Francis Bonnefoy had meeting Arthur Kirkland.

"Francis. - he reached out - Nice to meet you."

"Thanks god! - the other man smiled in relief - Arthur. Finally I met someone who speaks English."

He grinned, "You french accent is so horrible to be heard, I prefer this way."

"What?!"

Arthur seemed really pissed off, while shouting, Francis laughed.

"C'mon, c'mon, my english one must be terrible too, isn't it? Better that everybody knows their flaws. Anyway. - he smiled in a rather cheesy and malicious way - If you wait for me, I will personally escort you."

Arthur wanted to protest, but he did get lost four times in museums since he was in Paris and didn't felt like trying to set a record. He gave an annoyed sigh and nodded.

The Orsay Museum was way too big and all a little disorganized to him, besides, it was really full, really full, ofpeople, crowded as the Hell. And all that people exasperated him like one hour ago.

...always better than that thursday at the Louvre, anyway.

Slowly, unknowingly, he started to stare to that tall man, looking so deeply at the statue.

He was rude and scorchingly sweet at the same time.

Arthur didn't know anyone like him: in England, everybody was a true gentleman, politely cold, but not like... that man, he was quite the opposite. He had that strange, wicked light in the eyes, and a voice melliflous as a poem.

And still.

He was quiet handsome, probably the most handsome man he ever saw.

His dirty blond hair was quite too long, his shoulders protective, his skin were clearly taken care of, he was dressed with an elegant grey suit and, under, a black v-neck t-shirt. And a pair of dark sunglasses in the jacket pocket.

Arthur with his normal white shirt, rolled up sleeves, and khaki trousers felt like a fossil.

Francis. He even had a beautiful man, so much as.

Francis.

With those blue eyes, he was completely intent in the giant sculpture.

"What's it?"

"Rodin. - he replied, quickly, dry, not because of rudeness, he was simply rapt, absorbed - The Gates of Hell."

"It's... ghastly. - Arthur shook his head, searching for an easier word - Frightening."

Francis cracked a wide smile, "It's beautiful."

Arthur came closer, letting the look caressing the sculpture.

"It seems... alive, breathing."

Francis gave a short moan in agreement.

"It almost scares me.", commented, without even noticing to speak.

The french man seemed to chuckle, amused.

"I'd die to be able to do something like that."

Arthur felt a slight thrill on his back.

"...are you an artist?"  
"Not really.", he blinked.

Arthur tried to reply, "Then what did you mean?"

"Exactly what I said."

The french man seemed to want to change topic, looked down the stairs and mumbled in French something about the painting Arthur was searching, leaving the Londoner in an astonished confusion.

"Come. - Francis winked - This way."

When they finally arrived, Arthur wided his eyes. "Oh, here..."

The beautiful lines, the colours that seemed wrong, almost sick, the details running throught the figures. Breathtaking.

Francis smiled.

"Do you like Moreau?"

"It is... was... - the english man seemed sad - My mom's favourite painting. I am not really an expert of this kind of things."

"Art is not something only an expert can understand ."

Arthur flipped one of his thick eyebrows, "If there was an art critic here, he would cut you off, do you know?"

"I don't think so."

He seemed to find him so funny, that Arthur felt almost humiliated. And flustered.

"Anyway... thank you for escorting me."

Francis come closer to him, his malicious and wicked smile still sharp on his mouth.

"Do you know the myth of Orpheus?"

"He was a musician, isn't it?"

"The greatest one on earth... - his voice was warm, no, not warm, hot - Even beasts became calm and quiet when he played. He has the biggest talent, but, more important, he was in love. With Eurydice."

Arthur found him self looking at those, slightly greysh lips.

Francis was not an human, he was a black hole.

And he was falling right into his gravity.

"But she died. - Francis continued - And to have her back, he sang for the king and the queen of Hell and made a deal with them: if he would have been able to not look at her until they were out of the gates of Hell, then she would have returned to life."

Arthur blinked, seeing a dark shadow in Francis' blue eyes.

"...but he turned before she was completely out. - he murmured, almost speaking to himself - He wanted so much to hold her again that he did something really stupid... and then, he lived the rest of his life knowing he wouldn't have been able to love no one else. - he put his hans in the trousers' pockets - The Ciconian women tried to seduce him, but, being rejected, they killed him and butchered him in pieces."

Arthur felt a cold shock running through his spine.

"Oh."  
"Women. - Francis assumed a strange expression - Never trust them!"

"...it's horrible."

"You seem rather icy, boy."

Arthur protested, "They killed a man just because he didn't love them, how should I call it if not 'horrible'?"

Francis slowly opened his eyelids.

His voice seemed hoarser and hotter.

"Desire."

Arthur froze, "It's quite low."

"You know, men can look at the stars, but their feet touches the earth."

"...what kind of life phylosophy is it? So... french, thinking there's beauty is something so..."

"Human?"

"Dishuman!"

"Oh. Well. - Francis' smile was thicked - I guess it depends on what is your definition of 'human'."

Arthur felt disgusted. And his stomach were tangled in a strict grip.

That man was scary: his idea of love was Arthur's idea of insanity.

But. But.

He felt it, he heard it, that warning voice, in the corner of his chest. But.

He also heard a 'but' and that nauseated him even more. And in a deepest way.

Francis looked at the clock at his wrist.

"Do you like Steak tartare?"

* * *

Boston, 2012

"It's not like I don't want to meet him!"

"Mh mh... - Francis continued to cook, nodding while Arthur kept complaining - I know."  
"I mean, it's just... it's normal! He's old."

Francis frowned.

"For Alfred, I mean."

"Better."

"But. - Arthur sbuffed, puffed, groaned - Do you think Alfred is his toyboy?"  
Francis blinked, "Al?"

"Yes!"

Arthur seemed to have found the epiphany, or the perfect excuse.

" _Chéri_ , no offence intended, but Al is one of the most annoying human being on earth. - he looked, explicitly - He's an iron ball to... well, not to the ankles, if you know what I mean."

"But he's handsome! That man is clearly exploiting him sexually! Maybe he's like Hugh Hefner."

"He's thirty-eight, not eighty-three!"

"...what if he's a playboy?"

Francis looked slightly invisible, he started to understand Matthew.

"Arthur, seriously, Al is not exactl the type of prey that..."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, those hamburgers are starting to park on his belly."

"He's not chubby, he's healthy. - Arthur snorted - And it's always better than that phase Matthew had... when he was fifteen."

Francis felt a little guilty, "Right. Sorry."

"Don't worry..."

Arthur gave a sigh and Francis smiled, "Everything will be allright."

"If it won't, I will expect an apology."

The french man tasted a little the meal, moaning in approval, "Anyway, you shouldn't worry. Look, Antonio and Lovino are perfect together."

"The fact that somebody can stand Lovino is still beyond my understanding."

"...not that your temper is better.", he whispered.

"I heard you."

Francis drew open the short curtain of the kitchen window, "Uh, they arrived."

In the small path in front of the house, Alfred parked the car, with a giant, shining smile on his face. He went to the right door and opened it.

"Destination reached!", he exclaimed.

Quietly, slowly, a short silhouette exited by the car.

The man groaned and Alfred asked, "Still carsick?"

"...you should stop to race like we were in a car chase... my poor stomach."

Arthur gave a sigh, without even watching outside the glass.

"So, here we go..."

* * *

Boston, 2010

In Japan, the academic year begins in spring, with the blossom of the sakura cherry trees.

So, I was used to start with the soft and graceful pink petals blowing in the morning breeze.

_Without regret_

_they fall and scatter..._

_cherry blossoms._

Now, instead, I am in this foreigner country, it's Autumn and the only wind is cold and wrinkled like an old handkerchief. In these times, I sigh so much that I am actually starting to say 'sigh' instead of doing it.

I empty the boxes and the luggages, but my room in the campus seems still so anonimous and so hollow.

...at least, Pochi is with me. I don't know how I would have survived without him - oh, how cute he is on the bed, right now! I should take a photo! - also, being in this little apartament instead of my big house with the garden is... so strange.

Alienating.

Oh, anyway, I should give my best.

It's rather cold, but I still didn't finish to take my clothes out of the luggages, so I put on an enourmous sweater with the university emblem. It's rather-

"...flashy."

And tacky.

Sigh.

Anyway, "Pochi, good dog, I'll return soon." a little bark as answer, then I exit my room, heading to the consulting library. Walking under the arcades and the porch, around the little cloister, I notice how the heavy, dull, leaden sky seemed to squash me. The sound on the rain - even it - is so different from the one I was used to.

The rain, here, is close to a rapid drench, a dagger, its sound seems a clink that cracks, like fallen glass. Even the rain is violent, in America. It's a pandemonium.

I hope I will find the books I need to organize my lesson.

The shelves are dusty, there is a strange smell, like wet wood and ashes, or fireplace. The light is an artificial, odd, yellow. And, somehow, it makes all the room seems darker and colder.

Even if it's a lamp.

Stupid, isn't it?

So, History division, Oriental bookcase, Japanese shelf.

My fingers linger on the spine of the books, while, without even wanting, I find myself sighing again. Am I so homesick I don't even realize it?

At least.

At least.

Oh, c'mon, Kiku Honda, isn't since you are a kid that you want to teach in an University? You wrote your book, your essays, Boston. Boston, holy Gods! You should hop and jig about. ...or, at least, be happy.

Why I feel like crying?

Didn't my dream just come true?

Why I can't stop thinking about Yao?

Am such an ungrateful man?

"Hey!"

Mh?

Wha- what the? Why I have a blond giant at two centimetres from my face?

"Oh! - his voice is so annoyngly high - So you are awake, indeed! You stop and stared like you were asleep on your feet!"

I stutter something, confused, I don't even know what.

"Alfred Jones, but you can call me Al, nice to meet you!"

...what's my name, again?

"Hon-Honda Kiku."

"Honda? Like the cars?"

...I am not sure that's the type of thing you should say out loud.

"Yes."

"Cool! - he seems enthusiast... rather energic - What were you searching? I guess it must be terrible here to find something, they use a ridicolous organization."

"...the Dewey Decimal Classification?"

"It has a name?"

"...yes."

"And what stands 'Dewey' for?"

Is he joking, right?

"Melvil Dewey."

I try to cut it short, I don't really want to talk to... why his air are like gold?

"You mean someone actually invented it? Jesus Christ, humans are strange."

"...are you an alien?"

"What?"

...sarcasm.

"Nevermind."

I'd better run away.

I'd better...

"No, Honda, wait!"

He grabbed my arm. Why are you grabbing my arm? Shitty country with shitty giant people with shitty habit of human contact...

"Don't touch me!"

"Hey! - he frowns - C'mon, I didn't even touch you."

...and what's grabbing people's arm?

"...and what's grabbing people's arm?!"

Did I actually said it?

"Emh, I'm sorry, it's not like I usually act...", human reactions and such.

"Do you want a coffee?"

"Eh?"

He repeats, going slowly and speaking even louder, which, I was sure, it was probably impossible and clearly out of line in a library.

"Do you want a coffee? - he mimes drinking, pointing me and him - Do you understand 'coffee'?"

Is he completely idiot, isn't it?

I swallow.

Am I so nervous? I am not at my ease, with this... person, thing, mountain.

Blond mountain.

Blond, beautiful, mountain.

Kiku Honda, remember he seems idiot, please.

Also, he seems really young. He is probably a student, hopefully not of my course. And maybe getting too close to a student it would be inappropriate.

He smiles with the blue of his eyes.

Like a tender summer sky.

"Of course."  
He takes me again by my arm and pratically pulls me out of the library and under the porch, following a little bricks wall until a small café. He exclaims.

"Here! They make the better caramel latte in the whole world!"

I smile, quietly, politely, as ever.

Will I ever get really used to this kind of extrovert people?

The wind blows and whistles, like an melancholic swing of cold. Alfred opens the door and a little bell sings. My sweather is wet and so large, I feel... cumbersome.

"What do you want, Honda?"

"Mh, maybe a tea..."

"Oh right, you are japanese! - then he tilts an eyebrow - You are japanese, right? Not, emh, another of these ones of that zone?"

...why me?

"Yes, japanese. - I feel a little sick, the café is a little too warm and moist - I lived in Kyoto."

"Interesting. - liar - Do you want green tea? Or black? Go to sit down, I'll order it!"

"...green is fine, thank you."

I sigh, again.

It's all so silent, right now, even if I hear a far background buzz. From the window near the brown leather bench, I can see a little corner of the campus' garden, with a little apple tree, the only tree that doesn't seem to be sleeping, and not with red, sad leaves, but with big, juicy, shining apples.

A different red.

A tasty one.

They reminds me of home.

Yao cutting the apple in a rabbit shape, Yao cooking apple cake for me, Yao singing Shiina Ringo and telling me everything would have been alright even in the USA. Oh, Yao. Now that I am so far away a part of me regrets never call you 'brother' like you always asked me to.

I miss you.

I miss... so many things I didn't even know that were important.

"Honda!"

"Mh?"

"Here. - he smiles, happly, like a child, leaning the big plastic cup on the table - ...and here too."

A little dish.

"Uh?"

"Well, Romy said it was hot from the oven."

I blink.

He sits too, near to me, still smiling, drinking what seems an huge cup of whipped cream with a cargo ship of caramel syrup. I still look at the little dish.

"Is it for me?"

"Yup."

But why?

He blinks, cutely, "Don't you like applecake? Oh! - he shivers - Are you allergic?"

"Oh no, don't worry, it's just... omh, it's... very kind from you. You don't even know me."

Alfred seems to relaxe.

"Oh, thanks God, you are not allergic! Anyway, don't worry, I took you here, so it's my pleasure to offer you a little of american cuisine, right?"

"Well, it's nice, anyway."

"Can I eat the whipped cream at its side?"

I am sure, I am blinkng.

I am sure, I am a little shocked.

He looks like a kid, pointing it, or a puppy, if a puppy was able to point with the index. And.

And his eyes are blue. Like the sky.

Not a city sky. But a clean, clear sky.

The type of sky that children draw...

And then, I laugh. A little, obviously.

But it's the first real time, after my arrival at Boston.

"Is it a yes?"

"It's a yes."

I am still laughing, I can't even hear well. My heart feels so light.

"Can I kiss you?"

Mh?

"Can you repeat? I didn't-"

Oh. _Oh_.

I understand, now, sort of.

He take my face in his hands and bites my lips a little, lingering on them, like a song after you sang it for hours. Like the sunshine, on the quite sea.

My first american kiss. It tastes like caramel.

No, wait, what?

"N-n-no! It's out of line!"

I scream, pushing hima little away. He seems concerned, but also amused.

"You are red, Honda!"

I am not red. Am I? Argh.

"You can't kiss someone ten minutes after you meet them!"

"Why? I like you?"

"It's inappropria- you what?"

"I like you."

...I am not sure this person can be enough mature to have finished elementary school.

I swallow, as I see his smile widening.

"Don't you believe in love at first sight?"

"...radically no."

"...red string of destiny?"

"Absolutely not."

He seems a little in difficulty, he scratches his nape, shruggling shoulders.

"I do."

This is not an answer.

"Besides. - I cough - You didn't even asked if I am gay, you can't just go on and kiss anyone you like!"

He blinks.

"But you clearly are."

"What is 'clearly' supposed to be?"

"Call it radar."

"Nothing like that exists!"

"You are red again!"

...shit.

I groan. It's useless. I am utterly defeat.

"...well, you can't kiss me anyway."

"Why?"

"You are really too younger than me!"

He blinks, again.

Oh my God, that blue. It's so intense. I am feeling sick and wordless again.

"What do you mean with younger? Are you not a freshman like me? But two years are not a big deal!"

"Jones."

"Al."

"Al. - I try to speak again, properly, but I can't really sound as cold and categorical as I would like to - How old do you think I am?"

"Twenty?"

"Thirty-six."

He does not seem worried, but he doesn't reply neither. He lowers his eyes and gives a quick glare at his cup and starts to drink again his latte from the straw.

I feel a little guilty and stuck my eyes to my thights.

"Honda?"

"Mh?"

He hands me a little fork, smiling again.

"The cake is better hot!"

I tremble a little.

"Do you want me to spoon-feed you?"

This person must have the short term memory of a goldfish: automatic reset every six seconds.

"What did I just finish to say?"

"I am cool with that. - his smile is stupidly captivating - Yes, you are older than me but it's not like you are a disgusting wrinkled ninety-years-old."

His manners are even worse than his brain.

"I like they way you looks out of the window. I saw you arriving some days ago and every morning you take a little walk in the park, then you return in your room and give a look outside of the window, like everything was completely different from a few moments before. - how did he even? - Then I like your dog, I mean, I like dogs. In general. But yours seems funny. Not scary. I mean, he's playful. - ...Oh, well, Pochi is, no, wait, how... - And I like the way you stutter and seems a little embarassed. I know it sounds weird, but you are cute."

"...are you a stalker by any case?"

He mumbles, "No. It's only you."

Oh.

I am impressed. But it's kind of creepy, anyway.

...but cute.

What should I say, now, exactly?

"...and I liked also the way you looked at those books. Because you seemed so absorbed, you almost caressed them a little. Ah, I like your hands. They are cute! - ...uh? - Emh, but, then I saw your eyes were a little dull, like sad and... I decided that... - he shruggles his shoulders again, he is nervous - ...well, it was a good occasion to make a move."

He seems to blush a little.

I take the forks from his fingers, cut a little piece of cake and take it to the mouth.

Yao, yours was better. But this is sweeter.

"It is... very good."

He giggles.

"I knew you would have loved it!"

I don't know if it's a good thing, probably not. A little voice in my head is sure that something will crash and make this the worst mistake of my entire life.

But.

His eyes are really bright, you know, Yao?

* * *

Paris, 1987

"Fuck you, Gilbert."

Francis took anothe deep breath, feeling the cigarette burning and consuming between his lips. In a fews seconds, it became actually hot and he spit it.

The light of the rising sun was pure and sharp like a dagger in the clear cerulean sky, while the streets were deliciously scented of freshly baked bread and orange marmelade.

The German boy looked at him irritated.

"It's not my fault."

"Oh yes, it is. - Francis knocked replied - You are the biggest asshole in the whole universe."

"Oh c'mon, you are my friend."

"Yes. But I can't say you are right, when you are as wrong as it is human possible to be fucking wrong."

On Gilbert's face rose a smugly look, "Oh-oh, somebody has a new crush!"

"I've nothing like that."

"Liar. - he chuckled - I know you enough to tell."

Francis puffed, shaking a little head and shoulders, "Well..."

Gilbert grinned, lifting eyebrows, "So... who's it?"

"...I don't know so much. He is just... a tourist."

"A tourist?"

"Here in Paris."

"Where he comes from? Oh, no, don't tell me it's from the North, because, really..."

"London."

"London."

"London."

Gilbert blinked, "Like... that one with Big Ben and... you know, Jack the Ripper and Sex Pistols?"

"To be true, I thought at Shakespeare."

"Because you are gay."

"...since when Roderich is a woman?"

Gilbert blushed and shouted, pointing at the french friend, "I don't like Roderich!"

"Oh. - Francis smiled, wickedly amused - Sure, you don't. How could I forget?"

"I don't like him."

"Yes, yes. - he entered in a little café - _Un espresso, un café au lait, puis deux croissants: un au chocolat et un à la confiture d'orange_. "

Belle brought the breakfast to the boys and, as she landed the cups and the pastries, Gilbert gave her a slap on her bottom.

Belle blinked, perplexed, then looked at Francis.

"...is he trying to convince you he likes girls?"

Francis turned his hands with the palms on, "See, Gil?"

"It's a set up!"

Francis groaned, stirring the caffellatte with the little spoon, Gilbert gave a sigh, opting for a change of topic.

"So, the English dude?"

"We had a sort of dinner."

"With your favourite dessert?"

"No. - he glared - I avoided."

"Utch! He must be ugly!"

"...it's not that."

"You mean he's actually ugly."

"I mean it's not that the point."

"So, he's ugly. And you don't care. - Gilbert frowned - Something is wrong, but... what's the point?"

"I want him to want me."

"Well, rape is illegal."

Francis was seriously thinking about killing his best friend.

"You never understands."

"That's what we always say, no? - Gilbert bit his chocolate croissants - Besides, I don't really think I want to understand it."

"Mh?"

"Let's be frank, once in your life, Francis: you know who you love."

Gilbert's red eyes were almost piercing his soul.

A warning thrill caressed his spine.

"Maybe, this is the right time."

"The right time?"

Gilbert almost laugh. No, he did, indeed.

Francis lowered his eyes in the coffee cup, feeling lost.

The German man choked a second, deeper and sharper laugh, "Oh, I almost forgot! You and your true love mania!"

The latte was so bitter that day.

Like the air.

* * *

Boston, 2010

Waking up after a night spent with Alfred is always like a post-war experience.

First, in his mind "I can't tonight, I have to get up early tomorrow" and "Take me, I'm yours, and multiple times." are synonims.

Second, he is delicate like a bull.

Third, he took the habit of sleeping in my bed and, moreover, on me. And I mean on. And I mean squashing me.

Sleeping peacefully is at this rate an utopic desire.

Pochi jumps on the bed and starts to lick Al's face, and he smiles quietly. It's cold outside, November knocking, the clouds are a colder greyish white and the wind seems to scratch me on my bones. The tender warmth of this blanket, of Al's scent , of not not being alone, seem more precious.

He slowly opens his eyes and reaches out for me.

Running through my lips, his fingers seem always scared of hurting me.

I have this sensation that, to me, he is actually gentler than with anybody else, even if can actually be rude and harsh. It's like he doesn't know his own strenght, but I am sure if he knew he sometimes hurt me, he would hate himself.

His mobile phone rings.

I know this song by heart.

"Al, they are calling you."

It's a thief in the night to come and grab you... It can creep up inside you and consume you...

"Al, the mobile."

Groan.

It doesn't stop, but Al hides behind the blanket, leaving me alone with the ringing contraption. Yes, because Al doesn't have a normal mobile, he has a fucking space shuttle.

"Get it you...", he begs, with the voice muffled by the quilt.

I grab it and. Oh no. No. No.

"It's your dad."

"I am sleeping."

"I refuse to answer in your place."

"Zzzz..."

"Don't pretend to be asleep with me..."

It's ringing another time. Panicking, I click on the green telephone icon.

Why bad luck loves me so much?

"Al! - a melodious, sweet voice - Al, it's papa here! How are you?"

"Emh... hello?"

"Your voice sounds strange. - I am imagining this no face person frowing - Did you get a cold?"

"I am... I am not..."

"Oh! - a little laugh - I see! Can you tell Al that papa called? Take the time you both need, _au revoir_!"

Glaring at Alfred's body under the blankets, I grumble, "Congratulations, now your father knows."

"...people is usually happy others to know they have an active sexual life."

Puff. Sigh.

"Anyway, you should call him back."

"Who was?"

He pop up, showing his sweet face again. His hair are like sunshine rays.

"You dad."

"Daddy or papa?"

Does it even changes something? Or does he have a 'who is your daddy?' ex lover who calls him from time to time?

...does he?

"Papa."

"Ah! Francis! - he seems to feel better - I'll call him after lunch. And with luch I mean you."

"...is he your dad?"

"Sure."

"You said he was a 'british asshole lordie lord', that man spoke French."

"Yes. - why are his neck so invating? and his skin so soft? why do I love him so? are you cheating on me, Al? - He was papa, not daddy."

It doesn't make sense.

To love you so, I... I am a man, I shouldn't fall for such a naive thing.

Alfred sighs, heavily.

"I have two dads, well, technically three, but I don't like to consider so my biological dad, because he must have abandoned me or something."

Two?

"Why did you never said me?"

"Is it a problem?"

"Not at all, just. - lowering my eyes, I see all the grey zones on the white quilt. Light always cast a shadow, they say - I feel like I didn't know something important of you."

We are lovers from such a short time, I shouldn't ask for everything.

I shouldn't force him in a relationship.

Even if he always says he loves me... maybe it's just he'stoo young to know what to say.

Alfred smiles always in such a pure way.

He blinks.

"Francis comes from France, he still has a little strange accent, but he's proud of it somehow, he is beautiful and always blabbers about love, Arthur is... well, British. I mean, he drinks his earl grey at five pm , and also lift up the pinky while doing it. He reads a lot and has a terrible taste so wears some terrible rotten marsh green pullovers. - a little pause - Oh, I told you I have a brother, right? He is Matthew. He's a little passive-aggressive, but he is my best friend. - he seems embarassed - Whoa! That sounded pathetic , I guess, anyway, he's cool! He plays hockey and make some awesome action painting in the garage, but that's a secret! Our parents don't know about it."

"Action painting?"

"It's his way to release the tension."

"Sad tension?"

"Sort of. - a bitter shade on those lips, I guess it's the first time he really seems saddened - The best people are the ones who endure the most, right?"

"They say so."

How much I don't know?

How deep can I sink my fingers?

There's no stop sign.

There are not warnings.

I don't want to break you, I don't want to crash the wrong way. But I would like to feel everything of you and knowing every detail of your invisible soul.

Can I pretend to have this right?

...is it a beautiful cerulean like your eyes?

"Are you angry?"

"Why should I?"

Alfred lips against me are always so sweet and still so overwhelming.

It's like a pandemonium.

A sweet pandemonium.

"Kiku. - don't stop now, not now - I..."

"Is it necessary to say it now?"

I want to devour you. I never felt like that. I want every inch of you to belong to me.

Don't go away.

Why do you shine so much?

Glaring dream.

"I love you."

As I open my eyes, I see your mouth quivering and the terror in your pupils. Did you wanted to say it or it just slipped out of your mouth?

I don't quite understand: you throw the stone and hide the hand, even when it's not possible. You scream and then search for a refuge.

You always speak the true, but your eyes pretend you were joking.

Looking at you, believing in you, is like being sentenced to be the only adult between us.

Am I your lover or just your fourth father?

And how scared are you exactly like now?

I am touching your face, I am caressing your cheek... does it feel better?

Do you feel my warmth?

Telling the truth scares to death.

"Me too."

But I am more scared of lies.

After you, my sweet pandemonium, silence would be unbearable.

Your smile widenes, your eyes shine like the rising sun, your kisses are deeper.

How could I resist it and pretend to restore my soul, if you ever break it? I feel like I was an adolescent in your hot, shivering, hands.

A warning voice still screams in my head.

* * *

Boston, 2012

"Oh! Oh. - Francis panicked - Oh I was so stupid."

Arthur glared, "Undoubtedly. But why?"

"Maybe he's vegetarian! Or vegan! Oh the whole menu is filled with meat ad cheese!"

"...like you always do."

"...what's if he will hate us?"

Arthur was perplexed, "We are the ones he should please, not vice versa!"

" _Mon petit_..."

"Don't call me cabbage.", he interrupted, hissing.

"I don't want my son-in-law to hate me..."

"He could be your brother-in-law. - Arthur commented, lemonly acid - Anyway, what you prepared will be fantastic both the... salad and the... that strange meat."

" _Délicieux boeuf bourguignon_."

"Unpronounceable boffborguiwhatyouwant."

Francis gave a sigh, "I hope we will like at lest the _Salade de roquette, cerises et magret de canard fumé_..."

Arthur rolled his eyes to the heaven, "C'mon, we are always in time for ordering a pizza."

"I except a conscientious objection."

"Daddy, Papa, Mattie!"

The calling voice seemed like a battle cry and, with a knowing look, they both prepared to the meeting.

To be true, Arthur was... surprised.

The man standing in front of him seemed a kind, perfect person. For a moment, he also forgot the real reason he doubted of all that story, maybe because Kiku looked a lot younger than his true age.

Also, the man was wearing an elegant grey suit, with a red tie, not like the vulgar steoretype he was sure to meet. His voice was soft, kind and quiet.

"It's my deepest pleasure to meet you. - he gave a deep bow - My name is Kiku Honda and I am honoured you invited me today."

Francis blinked, impressed, witha big smile, while Arthur seemed in difficulty.

Alfred laughed, "Oh Kiku, don't be so formal!", he gave a series of slap on the Japanese's back, who panicked asking if he did something wrong.

Francis tweeted, "Al, why don't you go to call Mathieu? - then he looked ad Kiku - Mister Honda, believe me, I am truly happy to meet the man my son loves so much."

Arthur groaned something.

"So, why don't we all drink something, waiting for the guys to come back?"

When he found him, Alfred gave a sigh in happiness, seeing his brother's eyes, while the younger was concentrate, looking at the big canvas.

The white trickled down from his hands.

Gold stained his woodcutter style reddish shirt.

His arm was a cemetery of blue drops.

"Matty!"

He turned, a big shiny smile, "Al!"

"Painting again?"

Matthew nodded, "Yes, almost finished."

"What's the title?", Alfred asked, curious.

He was not exactly fond of art, but Matthew's painting always made him feel somehow better: as if just looking them, was a splash of energy and freedom. Even if they weren't generated by joy, but range or frustration, still they had the power to heal every tension Al felt.

Matthew smiled, taking his shirt off and searching a good pullover. He always keeps some in the garage, just in case he needed to change soon.

"What it communicates to you? - he asked, calmly - You can title it, if you want."

"As your number one fan?"

"Ahaha, one of two!"

"Well, my drawings have zero fans.", Alfred replied, making Matthew laughing a little more.

He looked at the painting with an intense stare.

"I am sorry, I can't seem to think at aything else than Kiku, right now..."

"You see him everywhere, eh?"

"I do. - in the white, as his skin, in the gold, as his earring, in the pink as his beloved cherry trees, in the blue of their beautiful bruises - ...I really really do."

"It's something good. - his voice was low as ever, but Alfred always heard him - It means you are in love."

Alfred breathed in.

"I've got you under my skin."

"Mh?"

"It makes me think about Kiku."

Matthew laughed bitterly, shaking his head, "Don't tell our parents that their song makes you think about your boyfriend."

"...how many times they made us listen to that dusty record?"  
"Enough to make me hate Frank Sinatra."

Alfred looked at a little pinkish spot in the right bottom corner of the canvas.

It really seemed a cherry flower petal.

* * *

Paris, 1989

"It's over."

Arthur had the habit to say those words quite often, pratically at every quarrel: big screams, crashing dishes, tugging Francis' hair. It was a sort of broken record.

It was something predictable.

Not so Francis.

Francis never said it before.

Not even once.

Arthur was frozen. He stepped backwards, swallowed, looked around the room - that started twirling nauseatingly - for a grip. His lungs were full of ice and silence.

Francis lowered his eyes, bit his bottom lip.

"I am tired, sick and tired... you don't really care about us."

"How do you dare saying so, when you are the womanizer!"

"And you? What are you? - he shouted - The pure one? The victim? Or the masochist?"

No dish fell to the ground, but Arthur was sure to hear them right in his head.

"...I hate you."

"As you please."

Francis pushed back his long blond hair, nervously. His lips started to blood a little, not drops, actually, but if he were touching it, he would have noticed.

Arthur shook his head, his mouth was trembling, like he was falling apart.

"False.", he whispered.

"What?"

Arthur opened the door, turning, without looking at his lover anymore.

"I am going out for a breath of fresh air."

As he closed the door, Francis felt his chest too big.

And empty. And black.

_I said to myself: this affair never will go so well._

He was scared, he was alone.

He opened the door, in a rush, screaming in the stairwell.

_But why should I try to resist when, baby, I know so well..._

"I've got you under my skin?"

Arthur stopped walking.

He slowly turned to Francis.

"I'd sacrifice anything come what might, for the sake of havin' you near!"

He was almost screaming.

Arthur blinked, paralyzed.

_In spite of a warnin' voice, that comes in the night_

_and repeats, repeats in my ear:_

He never thought that also Francis felt this song so close to them?

_Don't you know, little fool, you never can win?_

Oh, they really were two fools.

"I've got you... - he tried to sing it but failed, so started again, just speaking loud, with tears buzzing in his eyes - ... so deep in the heart that you're really a part of me."

Francis ran to him ad held him so tight their bones felt warmer.

* * *

Boston, 2012

"So... Kiku. - Francis sat near the japanese man - What do you do?"

"I teach Oriental history at the university."

"Oh a professor, wonderful!"

"Alfred was one of your students-" , Arthur muttered. It was not clear if it was a question or not.

Kiku seemed calm, but Alfred noticed his being slightly annoyed.

"No, he didn't, even thought a little lesson of history would have been usefull.", he had a mocking smile and the blond lover felt embarassed, admitting it was not his strong point.

Francis continued, "I worked for a little time at my University too, in Paris."

"It must have been wonderful... I have a very sweet memory of Paris."

"Because Paris is indeed Splendid! - Francis declared - What do you liked the most: the Louvre? Notre-dame?"

Kiku thought a little, "Orsay, probably."

Francis grinned, it wasn't evene necessary to look ad Arthut, he exactly knew which expression he had in that moment. The Londoner bit a little his tongue, while Alfred snapped up from him the last roasted potato.

" _Oui_? - the French man smiled - And which works were you struck with?"

Kiku seemed embarassed, "Oh, emh, couldn't say just one... Delacroix, Rodin... and Monet."

"Monet?"

"I adore Monet.", he admitted, his eyes searching Alfred to hold him, at least in his mind.

Francis smiled, "Monet is utterly beautiful, but my favourite will always be Rodin."

"At Tokyo we have one of the Gates of Hell."

Arthur interrupted, "Fran, would you help me with the dessert?"

"...this should be my line."

"Fran."

"Sure, rosebud. - a quick bow - Excuse us one moment."

When they left, Kiku was able to breathe perfectly again and gave a deep sigh, the turned to Alfred and whispered.

"Your father hates me!"

"Which one?"

"Arthur!"

Matthew smiled, looking at the japanese man, who actually forgot he was at the table too, "Oh, don't worry, this is his normal attitude."

"...really?"

"He tries to be a gentleman, but in the end he's a mundane surly person.", Alfred resumed.

Kiku didn't seemed convinced but didn't feel like insisting.

"Papa likes you a lot, anyway.", Matthew said, softly, trying to cheer him up.

Somehow, he managed to.

But Arthur's mood was really not good, instead.

"Are you flirting or what?"

Francis genuinely blinked, "Me?"

"Then why are you so gentle and attentive towards him."

"I am gentle and attentive. - he puffed .And anyway, he's Al's boyfriend, we should at least be kind to him, what the hell was that veiled accusation of pedophilia?"

"He his forty!" , Arthur exclaimed, exasperated.

Francis raised an eyebrow, "He's beautiful. And not only outside. He smiled at you even when you was mean, his looked around for Alfred with his eyes the whole lunch and, _parbleu_ , you can't decide who he can or can't date."

"I am his father, I can."

A deep, irritated, sharp sigh.

"If you continue with this behaviour, you will lose him. You can't pretend he didn't grow up."

"It's not like that, I..."

"It's exactly like that, _Arthur_!"

The English man shut up, whil his glare feel gravely heavy to the ground.

"...what's this supposed to be: a munity, a riot?"

Francis shook his head, hopeless.

"A declaration of adulthood."

He spread the brown sugar over the little pots of yellow, sweet, vanilla cream. He took the little torch and set fire.

As the sugar melted and crystalized, Arthur felt his stomach tighter and torn.

It was simply absurd to keep on pretending.

But would have he been able to face the consequences?

* * *

Toronto, 1990

"It was just a friendly fuck."

"There is no such a thing as a friendly fuck, Francis."

"He was depressed, we were drunk and, oh _sacrebleu_ , you said it was over and-"

"I always say it's over!"

Arthur yelled and Francis snapped the tongue, confused and sorry.

"It..."

He didn't know what to say.

Anyway, everyway, it was wrong. Just.

He didn't meant to hurt him.

He was just...

"I am an idiot."

Arthur opened the bedroom door, "I know... I will sleep a little."

"Are you... - which word to choose? in the end, everyone would have been wrong - ...okay?"

The green eyes seemed colder and harder.

From grass to emerald.

"Am I crying?"

"No..."

"Here is your answer.", Arthur whispered.

He closed the door behind his back, sinking in the bed and drapping in the blankets.

Boys don't cry.

Right?

Tha warning voice called him again, strongly. Harshly.

But Francis voice was louder.

"I love you."

* * *

Boston, 2012

The sun was setting.

A wet orange painted the white walls of the houses and the dark foliage of the trees. The wind was colder, while the evening dressed the sky with a shy, pale, moon and the first star of the night.

Kiku was sitten on the little veranda, watching the leaves dancing softly.

At a sort distance, right in front of the garage door, Alfred and Matthew were playing basketball, liike when they were just kids. Matthew protested weakly, as the elder hit him in the face with the orange sphere but Alfred laughed louder.

Francis sat near the japanese man, smiling.

"They will never grow up."

Kiku gave a sigh, "I guess it can be also seen as a good thing, after all."

The blond man lighted a cigarette and offered one to the asian too, who accepted quietly.

"I was very worried for Mathieu, to be true. - the taste of the smoke invaded his mouth - He is... fragile. Like crystal. Alfred is a diamond: nothing seems to break him. They may look the same but they are completely the opposite."

Kiku blinked, without speaking.

Francis seemed strangely sad, scratching his neck, "I always had the firm certitude that Alfred would have find happiness without getting lost."

"...is it a polite way to tell he was wrong?"

"Not at all. - he smiled - I am proud of him. Today he introduced us a kind, intelligent man. - he laughed - To be true, I was a little afraid he would have fallen in love with some stupid football player."

"Or a cheerleader."

"That was possible too, yes."

A pause, a dog barking, Matthew scoring.

"I don't know if you are the type of man I am... I hope not, to be completely honest, because Alfred is childish and impulsive and wouldn't understand. - Kiku failed to actually understand what Francis meant but continued to listen - And I don't know if this will actually be the story of your life or not. But, please, take care of that brat."

Kiku felt his eyes a little wet, without knowing why.

Was it because of the kidness of Francis' voice?

Or the thought of living forever with Alfred?

Or the sunshine disappearing while the night knocked, softly, inevitably?

Was the little warning voice in his head finally shutting up?

"And... be patient. I know he can be really nerve-wracking."

"Are you talking about me?"

Francis didn't turned but put out the cigarette, "About our son."

"Oh. - Arthur looked at Kiku - Yes, he really is."

The awkward glance Arthurt sent to his husban, made him laugh a little, "I'll leave you alone a moment, I guess you may to talk."

"Francis, you-"

"Ah, beware, Kiku, Al is his mollycoddle!"

The japanese man blinked, while the English one displaied all the swearwords he knew, composing again after a little embarassed cough.

"...sorry for the totally not pretty show."

"You seem really a nice couple."

"Are you sarcastic?"

Kiku stuttered, starting, "No, I was serious!"

"People rarely says so..."

"People isn't something you should care about. - he lowered his eyes - I was an orphan, I grew up in a children's home, looking at you, all I see is that your family is full of love and nothing could me more important."

"I am sorry for..."

Kiku shook his head, "People used to look at me like there was something to be sorry for, but it made me a stronger."

Arthur smiled weakly.

"Alfred is not."

"Mh?"

"Strong, I mean... he is like me. He is an idealist, his idea of reality is completely utopic and one day he will seriously get hurt."

"Mister Francis said..."

Arthur interrupted him, "I know. - then he gave a sigh - Sorry, I didn't meant. But, you know, Francis is... a rational man who loves irrational things like Love and... beauty. He doesn't need certainty, because he always wins even against all odds."

"And you don't?"

"No... I am always utterly defeat, even when I win, because I am scared."

Kiku spoke softly, "I am scared too, it's human."

"Alfred is never afraid, but he never really tasted a loss. - he scratched his arm, nervously - And when he will, how much will it hurt?"

Kiku bit his lips.

His dark eyes stared at Alfred. Laughing.

He looked at Matthew's smile, as the brother hugged him.

Alfred was pure light for everyone.

Childish, yes, stubborn, for sure, but his heart was pure. And intense.

"The necessary.", he whispered.

Arthur frowned.

"But, for what's worth... I won't hurt him."

"You can't be sure."

"I am not a masochist... - Al waved at him, his eyes brighter than ever - ...and this means I will never hurt a part of me."

_But each time I do just the thought of you, makes me stop just before I begin._

_'Cause I've got you under my skin._

Arthurt turned, looking at the window.

In the living room, that old record was playing. Francis looking at him.

End


End file.
